The Curious Thing About Psychics
by TheRealAlyshebaFan
Summary: Can Shawn's day get any worse?  And seriously - why didn't he see it coming?


I honestly can't say I'm really a _big_ Shawn Spencer fan. I don't dislike him, mind you, but he also wears on the nerves a bit. I guess I just got over the whole perpetual 13-year old manchild thing a long time ago.

I actually had this rolled out and properly baked and crispy before I wrote "The Wrong Number" and decided to go ahead and send it out into the ether and be done with it. I don't really have any other ideas right now. To think, my prior fanfic was "ER" and "The A-Team" (movie/TV show). Huh. I started watching "Psych" again recently and felt like writing again.

* * *

><p><em>The curious thing about psychics<em>

_Is that psychics are curious things_

* * *

><p><em>It is often tempting to impute<em>

_Unlikely virtues to the cute._

~ An old proverb, c. 1960

* * *

><p><strong>Can Shawn's day get any worse?<strong>

* * *

><p><strong><strong>"So there's nothing? No cases at all?" Shawn asked Jules, staring up at her in surprise. "It's April Fool's Day, for God's sake! There should at least be _attempted_ homicides, from people taking revenge on people that pranked them. Gus, remember that time I punked you and you came at me with that dental drill? We'll just get the people arrested for lack of humor. Top of the list of suspects: Lassie!"

Gus smirked and went back to tapping on his computer.

Juliet shrugged. "There's nothing today, Shawn. It's been slow all morning. I've got paperwork back at the office. See ya tonight."

He frowned, at a loss, until he caught Juliet's glare. "Oh, right. Tonight. Right." He drummed his fingers on the desk.

"Our _date_," Juliet said patiently. "Remember? Dinner at a nice restaurant where there's no crayons on the table?"

"Can I afford that?" Shawn asked, after Juliet had left. "And what's a good meal without the smell of Crayola on your fingers? Remember those scented crayons, from a few years ago? Remember Gym Socks?"

"No, you can't afford a meal like that. You stole my credit card again, so it gets to go on a date tonight, while I go home and want _The__ Munsters_. And I've had plenty of good meals that didn't involve crayons."

"C'mon, let's go get some breakfast. I'm starving." Shawn hopped to his feet, thinking about pineapple pancakes.

"We _had_ breakfast, Shawn!" Gus protested, but he went along anyway, bored. Not a single call. No clients. No consultations in the past week. Mainly, though, he was going along to keep an eye on Shawn, in case the man had some kind of prank in mind. Shawn didn't exactly reserve just April Fool's Day for pranks, after all, but today he figured Spencer would double up his game and go for something huge. Like…well, Gus really didn't want to think about what it could be. But he figured it would be major.

* * *

><p>Juliet arrived back at the station at almost nine and wasn't surprised to see Carlton at his desk, going over paperwork, reading reports and muttering under his breath. He looked at his computer monitor for a moment and she could have sworn she saw him smile. But that might have been gas, because it was gone before it could even touch his eyes. His phone rang, and he answered it with a sharp bark of "Lassiter."<p>

She sat down and futzed with her papers for a moment, signing her name, editing her notes, frowning at something Carlton had written on her report – she had told him, once, that he had the hand-writing of a serial killer, to which he had only responded with 'Just practicing', which made her almost snort up her coffee. She wondered if he had kept his 'date' with Marlowe last Wednesday. It had been a hard day after all, chasing down a gang of drug dealers that had killed a local businessman. Now it was Sunday April the first, and his good mood after seeing Marlowe usually lasted until Saturday night. Today, however, she could see that he was as irascible as ever.

Lately, Juliet had noted a trace of _amusement_ in him, particularly when Shawn was around. She remembered reading some book about racehorses, a few years ago during her 'girl loves horses' stage, and the writer had described a really famous but foul-tempered old champion in a way that reminded her so much of Carlton. 'With his grumpy temper, single-minded determination to win, and the pure fear he could instill in his handlers, he nonetheless often seemed rather amused as he would rear and paw his legs like a boxer, tossed grown men around like ragdolls and terrorized his opponents on the track. Frequently, it was commented that if he was ever beaten, it was only because the horse in front of him was running _scared_'.

Carlton had, however, in recent weeks, seemed almost indulgent toward Shawn, rather than annoyed. He never started arguments with the younger man any more, and when Shawn started jabbing at him, the amusement would show in his eyes, instead of a sharp flash of irritation. What was really funny, to Juliet, was seeing how much that annoyed Shawn.

"Wait a minute!" She jumped at Carlton's angry shouting. "You're telling me that they can't be found? _At__ all_? After I've sat here on this damned phone for the past ten minutes, listening to _MacArthur__ Park,__Poker __Face_ and _Candy_, three songs that I am absolutely certain are the cause of much of the violent crime committed in this country today?" There was a stunned silence in the station, and she saw Chief Vick stick her head out of her office door.

Juliet gazed at her partner, who was leaning forward, elbows on the table, sleeves rolled up, eyes blazing with blue rage as he rubbed his temples. "Oh, well, well that's just peachy with a side of freakin' keen! What? Oh, hell no! No! No, I will not have a nice day! Call my cell when you find them!" Lassiter snarled into his phone, and smacked it down.

"Carlton," Juliet said, keeping her voice mild. "Why are you so…_grumpy_ most of the time?"

He turned and looked at her, raising one black eyebrow. "Am I worse today than usual?"

"Not really, but why…in general?"

"I have an excellent reason, actually, O'Hara," he said, nodding. "See, one day, when the world ends and my ex-father-in-law is being wheeled up the handicap-access ramp to the burning gates of hell, I have every intention of _being __the__ one __pushing __the __wheelchair._That alone makes being grouchy and sarcastic worth all the fires of eternal damnation – you don't get _there_ by being nice, right?" He nodded emphatically and stalked away.

Juliet smiled into her coffee cup, remembering how easy it was to find Carlton if he ever went missing: just follow the trail of outraged, indignant people he had left in his wake and she would likely find him terrorizing a criminal or at least drop-kicking a kitten through an airplane propellor. She didn't have to wait long for an offended person to come around the corner – Henry Spencer, who scuttled to his desk, wide-eyed. He caught her smile and shrugged.

"What's with Lassiter _today_?" he asked, sitting down at his desk.

"Beats me. It's a beautiful Sunday morning. Maybe he should go to Mass."

"I'm not sure the nuns could handle _him_."

* * *

><p>"What's that?"<p>

Gus was pointing at a large box on Shawn's desk, and the psuedo-psychic's eyes narrowed, observing it carefully. The box didn't jump off the table and start barking at them, however, so the two young men moved carefully toward it. It hadn't walked in on its own, either, so that in itself was alarming. Shawn peered around the top for a return address, but there was none. It was a large cardboard box – in fact, it was so large that it was hanging a little off Shawn's desk, and his laptop had been moved over to Gus's desk. They walked around it, and finally Gus shook his head.

"We aren't opening that thing," he said at last, firmly.

"Why not? It could be…it could be full of hair!"

"Hair?"

"Yeah. That'd be cool. A box of hair. For needy bald people. Or maybe it's a box of Leggos. Or…um…a lifesize inflatable doll, or a box DVD set of every episode of _Gunsmoke_."

"I don't want an inflatable doll, and I never liked _Gunsmoke_."

"We could name her Carlotta!"

"You have a girlfriend, Shawn," Gus pointed out helpfully. "You haven't needed an inflatable doll in years." But Shawn's curiosity was peaked and he could barely contain himself any longer. "And what if it's…it's a bomb?"

"A bomb? Please. How unoriginal. Who'd want to bomb us, anyway?"

"Who _wouldn't_ want to bomb us?" Gus asked pointedly. "I could give you ten names right off the top of my head. Starting with Lassie, and ending with Lassie."

"All the people that would want to bomb us are incarcerated, with only the notable exception of Lassie, and otherwise we are beloved citizens of this town," Shawn reminded Gus. He ran his hand along the top of the box. It had no dust on it at all. The top was undamaged, showing no signs of wear and tear from traveling cross-country. Strong and very tight vinyl strings were tied around it. Nothing had ever been set on top it. The address label was clean and typed neatly, without so much as a smudge. There was no return address label.

Shawn peered around the sides of the box, and finally lifted it a little to examine the bottom. The box was heavy, and he stood back, hands on his hips, wondering. He started scratching the back of his head, bewildered. "It's too heavy to be hair, unless it's a _lot_ of hair. Too heavy for an inflatable doll…"

"Leave it alone, Shawn. Just…throw it away. It looks suspicious."

"Look!" Shawn suddenly yelped. "There's a vinyl cord here!" he said, touching the white cord on the bottom right corner of the box.

"Don't pull it!" Gus shouted. He rushed around and placed his body firmly between the box and Shawn. "Don't pull it, Shawn!"

"Oh, come on!" Shawn said, trying to dodge around his friend.

"Listen, Shawn. I want you to _promise_ me you won't pull that cord! It could be anything in there. I'll call…I'll call Jules and get a bomb squad in here to check it out, and then you can see what's inside. If it doesn't blow most of California into the ocean, that is. C'mon. Let's go get lunch."

Shawn's shoulders sagged. "You're such a spoilsport, Gus."

"I'm just being sensible."

Shawn stared at him, and finally sighed dramatically. "All right. Lunch it is. Today – lemon curry pulled chicken! C'mon."

* * *

><p>Juliet peeked over at Carlton again, wondering. He was back at his desk, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper. It was a slow day indeed, which for any cop was a great blessing. He always looked so uncomfortable in any chair, because of his height. No amount of shifting, she knew, would find him anything approaching <em>comfortable<em>, but like most tall people, he had come to terms with chairs like that. What he hadn't come to terms with, of course, was this kind of quiet. Granted, it was Sunday, but she could tell he was bored and restless.

She studied him, observing his graying hair and his oddly hooked nose and oversized ears, and still concluding that he was an extremely attractive man. No wonder Marlowe liked him so much. He was one-hundred percent bonafide pure Irishman, through and through, and just as clever and calculating.

He finally glanced up at her, startling blue eyes making her jump. "Yes?"

"Oh. Nothing. It's a pretty dull day, huh?" she asked.

"Mm."

He resumed reading.

A noise to her right brought her attention to Shawn and Gus coming in, both looking cheerful. She glanced at Carlton, but he made no effort to return Shawn's effusive greeting, merely settling back in his chair and continuing to read. _Irascible_, she thought with a smile.

"Wanna come to lunch with us?" Shawn asked her, glancing at Lassiter, who ignored him. "Hey, Lassie, whyncha join us?"

"Because it's ten in the morning, you nit," Carlton answered in mild tones, not even lifting his eyes from the newspaper.

"Lunch has no time constraints," Shawn pointed out. "Neither does breakfast or dinner. Brunch…maybe. I mean, it's between breakfast and lunch, which have no constraints, but I think brunch would actually have a time constraint, as it can only exist at some point _between_ breakfast and lunch. A meal between lunch and dinner, which we'll call linner, would also have time constraints placed upon it. So join us for brunch, Lassie. C'mon, dude. What is there to do here today? It's Sunday, it's quiet, crime is taking a relaxing nap…maybe it's gone for a jog on the beach with its pit bull, or is reading the paper in its underwear while watching porn."

Lassiter's eyes never left the page. "Give yourself a few more minutes of mindless blather, Spencer, and you might top yourself in saying something even _more_ stupid than that."

Shawn frowned, then turned back to Juliet. "How 'bout it, babe?"

"Shawn, it's ten o'clock," she pointed out. "I already had breakfast."

She had had breakfast with Lassiter, in fact, at a little taco stand not far from the station. Carlton had shoved a napkin to her before the hot sauce had dribbled on her blouse. 'Cops don't have grease stains on their clothes', he had said, a tiny spark of _amusement_ in his sea-blue eyes. 'It gives a bad impression. It'll make people think you're not in proper order'. She had enjoyed the meal. She always enjoyed eating with Carlton. He would listen to her, argue with her, challenge her, and let her argue right back, unless she talked about Shawn. Then he would start looking less amused and she would change the subject. He would rather listen to her talk about feminine hygiene products than about Shawn.

Miffed, Shawn turned back to Carlton. "All right, Lassie, it's just you then. C'mon, amigo, you can eat with us. We'll even let you buy!"

"Well, Spencer, you just broke your record. It only took you until just after ten in the morning to say something mindlessly stupid." Carlton shuffled the paper and leaned back, crossing his knees and moving to the sports section.

"Huh. All right. C'mon, McGussypants. Brunch! Then we'll have lunch, and then we'll have linner…"

"I think I like lupper better. Or…dunch…" Gus said as they wandered out.

* * *

><p>Shawn was appalled that Gus could get <em>that<em> sick. The sausage had looked a little…unhealthy, yes, but to go from relatively congenial to projectile vomiting that fast took some actual _talent_, in his opinion. He dropped his partner off at his apartment and drove back toward his place, but then remembered the box at the office. Grinning happily, he turned back, turning on AC/DC and wondering why he never looked good in black.

He went into the office, picking up the mail as he went in, and pondered the box. He sat down at Gus's desk and opened his laptop, firing up Firefox and doing a little cruising around, looking up whatever subjects came to his mind. Little Debbie donuts, the Battle of the Bulge, the origins of the word 'debenture' (he had thought it had something to do with orthodontia), DNA profiling, the words to 'Five Feet High and Rising' and the next scheduled episode of 'How It's Made' (steel safes, false teeth, airplanes, and maple syrup). He looked up maple syrup and felt an uncontrollable craving for those wonderful little maple sugar candies that were shaped like leaves that he had never been able to find outside of a Cracker Barrel giftshop.

His eyes shifted to the box on his desk, and back to a website that indicated it sold those very candies. He frowned at the box, then back at the website. He dug in his pocket until he found Gus's credit card and pulled his attention back to the website, where he ordered ten boxes ($6.99 each) and a bottle of authentic maple syrup ($10.99, +S/H) from Vermont.

Having placed his orders, he sat back in his chair and scratched the back of his head as he observed the large box. It was sitting there, mocking him. He could almost hear it saying 'Neener neener neener! You don't know what's inside me! Nyah nyah nyah!" That was the irritating part. He had no idea what was inside it. It could be _anything_.

Getting up, he rounded on the box again and peered at it from all angles. He slid his finger along the edges, but it was apparently sealed tight, with no obvious flaps as points of entry. Only that piece of vinyl cord, just hanging there in a neat little loop, teasing him. He finally fingered one of the strings around it, but they were tied on _tight_. He tugged at them, and winced with the strings dug into his fingers. Sighing, he stood back and scratched his ear, annoyed. He went back to Gus's desk and found the scissors.

He would remove the strings, because they were mocking him even more loudly now. He stood beside the box, watching it. Maybe there was a midget in there. A tiny dead midget. A mafia hit victim, shipped to his office from Palermo, with a tear-stained letter from his family, begging him to find the killer, and that they wanted him to get the first look for clues. If they also sent along some good clam sauce, well, he'd be happy to help in any way he could…

One snip. The first string snapped away. He smiled, satisfied. Another snip. The second string jerked away and almost hit him in the eye. Shawn snipped away the other two strings and stood back, hands on his hips, observing the box. Marcello – poor, tiny, murdered Marcello – was in there, awaiting justice, and here he was, holding a pair of scissors and doing nothing to help. He could almost imagine his tiny family back in Palermo, weeping and praying silently as they waited for his call (he would have to get a translator, of course). He would take Jules with him. Sicily was nice, he had heard. Except for loose donkeys, it was a lovely island…

He began searching again for a means of getting into the box. Still nothing. He shoved it up onto its side, but there wasn't a flap on the bottom, either. No visible means of entry. Frustrated, he let the box flop back onto the desk, and he stepped back as it fell. He looked at the little vinyl cord and remembered Gus's warning, but this was frankly driving him crazy. He had to know what was in there. "I'm coming, Marcello!" he cried, and grabbed the cord, yanking with all his might.

* * *

><p>Juliet glanced at Carlton, watching as he talked with someone on the phone. The SBPD head detective seemed strangely…sympathetic toward his caller, rather than entirely annoyed. He sat back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes, wincing. "Ma'am? Please, forgive me for interrupting, but did you know that at Cornell University they have an incredible piece of scientific equipment known as the...lemme think...yes, the tunneling electron microscope? This microscope is so powerful that by firing electrons through it, scientists can actually see images of the <em>atom<em>, the infinitesimally minute building blocks of our very universe. Hm? Why am I telling you that, you ask? Because even if I were using that microscope right now, I still wouldn't be able to find any interest in helping you locate your missing cat Queenie. Call Animal Control, or the fire department. This is the _homicide_ division of the SBPD!" He hung up and rubbed his eyes. He caught Juliet's gaze and shrugged. "Really, _really_ slow day."

Her phone rang, and Juliet snatched it up. She jumped, startled, when she heard a disturbing, strangled keening at the other end. "Hello? Hello?"

"_Jules! __Jules! __Help __meeee!"_the high-pitched voice squeaked.

"What? Who is this?"

"_Sh..Sha..Shawn!"_

"Shawn! What's wrong? Where are you?"

"_I'm__…__at __my__…__office__…__can't__…__get__…__up!__Surrounded __by __rubber!__Call __Gus,,,and __don't __bring __Lassie!"_

"Shawn, what is wrong with you? Aside from the obvious, I mean."

_"Help meee!"_

"Shawn, stop goofing around. We know it's April Fool's, but this is just too obvious. Find something else to do. Go tease a lion at the zoo or something." She hung up, rolling her eyes.

Carlton looked up from his paper. "What was that?"

"Shawn. Trying to pull me into some kind of stupid prank." She shook her head.

"What can you expect? The guy has all the emotional maturity of a bag of puppies."

* * *

><p>Shawn had never in his life been so utterly terrified.<p>

He was on his butt, shoved hard against the wall, with what appeared to be a giant raft still inflating against him. He couldn't move a muscle – the whole thing had taken him by complete surprise, and he was rather glad he was alone because at least no one had seen his reaction when the damned box had _exploded_ after he had pulled the cord. The explosion of rubber and what seemed like _confetti_ had made him scream like a twelve-year old girl, and in his shock he had fallen down against the wall, and here he was now, pinned and unable to move, the raft jammed firmly between his desk and the wall, with his body trapped. He couldn't move his legs, and all he could smell was hard rubber and despair.

Spencer thanked God he had his cellphone, and he had dialed Jules first. She had not, however, been entirely sympathetic. In fact, she had dismissed him entirely. He supposed he deserved that. He had pulled more than few pranks on her, including one involving a fake tarantula and a bowl of whipped cream. She had yelled at him for almost an hour after that. He should have listened. This was clearly cosmic payback.

He struggled desperately against the raft, but he was _pinned_. He had no way out of this thing unless he called somebody. He looked at his phone, closed his eyes and resigned himself to a sound ticking off. He dialed his father.

* * *

><p>Henry wouldn't stop laughing, which annoyed Shawn to no end.<p>

"You'd think a _father_ wouldn't find the sight of his only child pinned against a wall by a giant killer raft, and covered with pink confetti, as so rib-achingly _hilarious_!" Shawn squawked, indignant.

The older man was laughing so hard he had to sit down and wheeze for a few minutes. After removing the killer raft, he had started laughing again. He was still sitting there while Shawn picked confetti out of his hair and checked himself over for injuries. Just a few bruises, and there was a dent in the wall from the force of the hit from the raft as it slammed into him and sent him reeling backwards. His elbow hurt, and he figured that had been what had made the dent.

"I'm sorry, son, but this is too funny. You didn't _divine_ that the box might contain something less than…fun?" Henry snorted again, snickering helplessly.

"There was nothing on it! No return address…" He began digging around, shoving the raft out of the way until he found pieces of the cardboard box. He gathered them all up until he was sure he had every bit, and spread them on the table, examining them. But he got nothing. _Nothing_. The confetti was pink, but when he started examining those tiny bits of paper, there was nothing to indicate the pieces contained a message when cobbled back together. He ran a hand through his hair, causing more confetti to fall away like giant flakes of dandruff. "Who would have sent it?"

"Probably Gus," Henry shrugged.

"I have his credit card," Shawn snapped. "He couldn't have paid cash for it, and he couldn't have ordered it online."

"Well, let's just chalk it up to you getting some paypack for all the crap you've pulled on people over the years. And for God's sake, son, stop stealing Guster's credit card!"

Shawn glared at him before flopping down into his chair, staring, aghast, at the raft, which was taking up a large portion of the office. He suddenly shot to his feet, snatched up some pieces of the cardboard box, and stomped out of the office.

* * *

><p>Juliet watched Carlton as he continued to read the paper, now into the comics. He was ignoring her entirely, and everyone else in the station, and didn't even glance up when Shawn came stalking in, looking agitated. Juliet's forehead wrinkled when she noticed pink confetti in his hair.<p>

"Lassie, I am here to report a crime!"

Carlton lifted his head and observed her boyfriend, eyebrow not even lifting. "Aside from that hairdo?"

"I was attacked this morning!" Shawn said angrily. "Attacked, in the peaceful sanctuary of my own office!"

"Hm. What weapons were involved?" Carlton asked mildly. "What did your assailant look like? Height, weight, age, race, et cetera, and once we establish his identify, do you think he would accept any kind of reward or public commendation? Perhaps a bottle of good Scotch, some money, a parade…?"

"A raft."

"Okay, so he might want a raft. Maybe he's into whitewater rafting…." Lassiter leaned forward. "There's several places around here that sell decent rafts are good prices…"

"My assailant _was_ a raft! I was attacked by a giant, inflatable raft!" Shawn shouted at him, a look of consternation crossing his face as he realized how ludicrous he actually sounded. McNab looked up from his tuna sandwich and frowned, a splotch of mayonnaise on the corner of his mouth.

"You were attacked by a raft," Carlton's eyebrows finally did go up. "That would be hard to use in a sneak _attack_, Spencer. An attack generally tends to involve some element of surprise. Like, for instance, you didn't expect a raft at all, but perhaps something small and…cuddly, like a rattlesnake or a boa constrictor, or at the very least, Teri Hatcher. A raft, or at least most rafts, tend to be rather large and not approaching cuddly. Not much of an element of surprise there, either." He pondered a moment. "I mean, if it was inflatable, your assailant would have to stand there and wait while it inflated, and even you would have enough sense to run away while it was inflating, thus not only ruining the attack itself but any chance of a surprise, and I think it would be fairly easy to outrun a guy schlepping a raft up the street. How did someone surprise you with a raft? You were asleep during this attack, and then your assailant and about six of his friends ran away, carrying said raft and giggling?"

"It was in a box. An _unmarked_ box," Shawn said, with as much dignity as he could muster, still looking around at the other denizens of the SBPD station as they stared at him.

"An umarked box?" Juliet rose from her chair and went over to start brushing the pink confetti out of Shawn's hair. "How did it get into your office?" She frowned and stepped back, pondering. "Somebody must have been able to bring it in without you knowing about it. You did lock your door last night, right?"

"Of course we did!" Shawn snapped. "We had our laptops in there, and video games and other stuff…"

"So the box just appeared in there?" Carlton asked, sitting on his desk and crossing his arms. "What did the box look like?"

"Brown cardboard. No return address, and…uh…no postal stamps or anything. Just a printed address label for my office."

"Hm." Carlton shrugged. He went back to his seat and leaned back, crossing his knees. He took a sip of his coffee and winced. Juliet figured it was cold now, and probably revolting. He put the cup on his desk and shook his head. "I know you realize that only an absolute idiot would open a box like that, so I won't rub that little bit in, as it would be justifiably cruel." He raised his hands in mock surrender to Juliet, who made a noise at him, "Just saying! But I doubt there's any way of tracing it. Bring us pieces of the box, maybe, and we'll dust for prints."

"I brought some pieces!" Shawn dug in his jacket pockets and produced two pieces of cardboard. Carlton took them and looked them over, then handed them to Juliet, who nodded and took them down to processing. Shawn sat down at her desk, spinning in her chair until he started to look slightly dizzy, and stopped to stare at the head detective, who had returned to his newspaper.

"So, Lassie, how're things going with you and Marlowe, Queen of the Night?"

Lassiter said nothing. He turned a page of the paper. Film reviews.

"When's she getting out?"

Again, no response.

"Lassie, c'mon. Surely you can talk about your jail_bird_! What, you think I don't care? Of course I care! I mean, even Lassie-face should get some act-…"

Shawn wasn't prepared at all for the sucker punch. It came so fast and so hard it left him gasping for breath. Right in the _chest,_ he thought as his vision blurred. He wheezed and fell to the floor, onto his knees. Juliet returned and stepped around him, sitting down and looking at her monitor before glancing back at Shawn. "When are you ever going to learn, Shawn?"

"Another crime!" Shawn wheezed. Carlton had gone back to his seat and was typing something on his keyboard, and Juliet glanced over at him. She saw a tiny spark of amusement in his eyes.

* * *

><p>"No prints at all?" Juliet said into the phone, glancing at Shawn, who was seated on her other side, far away from Lassiter, who was also on the phone. "Thanks." She hung up. "Sorry, Shawn. No traces."<p>

"Fine. Fine, then, I'll just go home." He stood up and glared at Lassiter, who didn't even raise his head. He was rubbing his temple, looking slightly annoyed, and Spencer seemed to sense that it wasn't a good idea to bother the detective any more. He rubbed the growing bruise on his chest, sniffed, and left.

"Thanks, Carla," Carlton said. "I owe you one. What time again? Right, right. Okay. I'll have it right back to you as soon as I can. What's it called again? _Really_? Huh. Well, talk about irony."

He hung up, and Juliet raised her eyebrows. "Carla?"

Carlton didn't answer her. He stood up and left. Juliet watched him, curious, but he was out the door and heading for his car. She sighed, shaking her head, and shut down her computer, grabbed her purse and headed out.

* * *

><p>Shawn saw the small package on his doorstep and, had it not been for his image among his neighbors, he would have shrieked like a ten-year old girl and climbed a tree. He eyed the package, which had tartan-pattern wrapping around it, and skittered around it, stepping into his apartment and closing the door. He waited a few minutes, then opened the door a crack and peered down at it. It was addressed to Shawn Spencer, from…he peered down at it and laughed happily.<p>

"Oh, wow!" he said gleefully, snatching it up. "Walker's Shortbread Cookies! I love these things! So much buttery goodness!"

Spencer took the package inside and began studying the package. He rattled it, and heard the cookies moving in there. He grinned. They were even shaped like little Scottie dogs! He looked at the return address label – they were from the British Ambassador's office, in New York. Shawn pawed at the packaging, removing the wrapping quickly. He opened the top of the box and began shaking its contents out.

"_Aaaaaaauuuuugggggghhhhh_!"

* * *

><p>"Shawn, Shawn, would you calm down! You're hysterical!"<p>

"Scorpions! It was a box of _scorpions_!" Shawn indeed sounded very, very freaked out. His voice was high-pitched and he sounded breathless.

"Live scorpions?" Juliet looked across the way at Carlton, who was writing something on his legal pad. She figured he was writing to Marlowe, because he only looked that relaxed when he was writing to her, or just thinking about her. Juliet pushed away that tiny frisson of jealousy that she felt whenever she pondered her partner and Marlowe and turned her attention back to Shawn. "Did you get stung? Where are you?"

"I'm currently standing on my kitchen counter, and no, I didn't get stung. I dropped the box, though – they went everywhere! Like an explosion of terror and urinary incontinence. And yes, they were _alive_. Hell, even if they had been dead, they still would have freaked me out. A dozen dead scorpions…but a dozen _live_ scorpions, Jules? Really? And in a box of Walker's cookies!"

"Who is Walker, and why do you have his cookies?"

"Walker's Scottish shortbread cookies, Jules. Only there weren't any cookies. Just scorpions, so that just doubles the disappointment! I mean, talk about rubbing salt in a wound. Get a box of fabulous buttery-good cookies and get scorpions instead. Or…or maybe they ate the cookies. Do scorpions have a sweet tooth?" Spencer fell silent for a moment and climbed down from his kitchen countertop and moved nervously back to his living room, where he retrieved the box. "But why would the British ambassador send me scorpions? Are scorpions a delicacy in England? I know they eat toads in holes and spotted dicks and bangers…"

"You're the psychic, Shawn. You figure it out." She hung up and rubbed her forehead, shuddering a little.

Carlton tore a page off his legal pad and folded it neatly. She looked up at him, and he stood, heading toward the doors. "Carlton?"

He looked back at her. God, his eyes are so _blue_, she thought. And he had been looking so good lately. Healthy and well-rested and _happy_. He was just as gruff and grouchy as ever, at least toward underlings, but he was focused and steady now. He still absently straightened his tie sometimes, but frequently that seemed to be more habit than anything else. He had also been beating Shawn to the punch so often lately that the psychic was starting to become paranoid about it. Carlton had clarity now – he was solving the crime while Shawn was scrabbling around for his first theory, and even though Juliet felt a little guilty about it, she was happy to see Shawn put in his place sometimes. His huge, perpetually thirteen-year old ego needed a good smackdown every now and then.

"Yeah?"

"Maybe you could go by Shawn's and check him out? He got a package of scorpions in the mail today."

"I thought it was a raft." He turned to face her, hands on his hips.

"He got the scorpions at _home_."

"Ah." He scowled. "Maybe he's got a stalker, or an angry ex-girlfriend. Yeah, I guess I can waste a few minutes of my time on the arrogant little twerp. Sure. I'd be delighted." He stuffed his envelope in his jacket pocket and turned on his heel.

* * *

><p>"See? See? <em>Scorpions<em>!" Shawn pointed a shaking finger toward the floor.

Carlton watched one of the venomous creatures scuttle across the floor, tailed curled up over its body. That made him think about those dogs…Alaskan malamutes or whatever. He glanced at Spencer before stepping over and slamming his foot down on the scorpion. He had spent a summer in Miami once, and had observed those little crabs scuttling across yards and had thought of chipmunks. Or actually, fur-covered post-nuclear fallout mutant chipmunks that pinched your toes. Carlton knew his mind tended to work in ways that even Spencer would find a little…odd. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at the phony psychic.

"I could shoot them for you, I guess," he said. "But really, stomping them is more effective."

"I want the scorpions gone. I don't want holes in my floor. Help me catch them. I mean, even scorpions have got lives to lead. They have homes and families and careers…that one there was probably a lounge singer in Vegas and was paying child support to three separate ex-wives…"

"Well, see, now you've gone and actually beaten yourself on that whole 'stupid thing to say' game today! Good job, Spencer, though I did think you'd wait 'til after dinner at least to try and top your own level of idiocy. Catch your own damn' scorpions, Psychobabble." He looked at his watch. "I have places to be."

"Right. Sure you do. When have you ever had a place to be, besides work? And you can't even…" He paused when he saw the ice forming in Lassiter's blue eyes. "I mean, you do an excellent job. A top-notch detective. The best. Even better at sucker punches." He took a step back. He didn't need another bruise on his chest. He would attribute his uncharacteristic rattledness to the day he was having. Tomorrow, he'd be back to jabbing at Lassie. Though frankly, lately, he hadn't been able to get much of a rise out of the guy. In fact, Lassie had only seemed _amused_ by him, rather than irritated, which was rather galling, actually.

"Yes. And all a sucker punch needs is a sucker, right Spencer?" Lassiter replied said with a mild, cold smile, and gave Shawn's shoulder an icily friendly thump before walking out. "Good luck."

* * *

><p>By mid-afternoon, Shawn Spencer was a complete wreck.<p>

He jumped at every noise. When the mail arrived, he refused to touch it, particularly when he saw that they were all bills. Probably with giant tarantulas in each envelope, so he stomped on them all several times and kicked them toward his coffee table, where they could wait until tomorrow. When Jules called him to remind him about their date that night, he could have sworn he heard somebody breathing over the line.

He tiptoed around his house, looking in every room, struggling to see anything out of order. But it all was the usual mess, and by five o'clock he was in a cleaning frenzy, folding clothes after smelling them to see if they were last week's dirty clothes or this week's clean clothes he hadn't put away yet. He started the washing machine, cleaned the kitchen, struggled to get the vacuum cleaner going before finally giving up the battle and slinking nervously into the living room. The scorpions were all in hiding, waiting for him to take his shoes off. He turned on the TV and watched an episode of _Infested!_ on Animal Planet. At the end of that, he sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, whimpering and vowing never to take his shoes off again and to never, ever prank anybody again, ever, swear to _God_.

It was six o'clock when the doorbell rang, and he nervously peered out to see Lassiter standing there, looking bored and annoyed. The tall detective rolled his eyes when he cracked the door open an inch and peeked at him. "Whattaya want?"

"What? Nobody can see the wizard, not no way, not no how? O'Hara is insisting I check your house for anything unusual. She figured that if someone was going to send you scorpions in the mail, they might have done more. I, personally, wouldn't blame them."

"And a raft!" Shawn said, yanking the door open. Lassiter stepped in and looked around the living room. "Don't forget about the raft!" He snatched up the box from whence the scorpions had tumbled and waggled it at Lassiter, who eyed the box, which still had a piece of tartan wrapping attached to it. "They were supposed to be Walker's shortbread cookies!"

Carlton stared at him, deadpan. "Spencer, did you eat any brownies this morning that tasted kinda…_funny_?"

"I had crepes, I had pancakes, I had strawberries, a piece of watermelon, then lemon curry pulled chicken, and then it was brunch, consisting of waffles, eggs Benedict, a bunch of maraschino cherries from the jar, a piece of pineapple upside down cake, another piece of watermelon, three glazed donuts…"

Lassiter looked appalled. "And a nasty gall bladder attack from excessive eating…"

"I stomped four more of the them to death."

"The donuts?"

"The scorpions!"

"And we're back. Well, I'm surprised I didn't hear the screaming," Lassiter muttered. "Stay in here. I'll look around, see if there's anything unusual…and yes, I'll stomp on any scorpions I see."

Shawn nodded and Lassiter ambled down the hall. He went into Shawn's bedroom and was in there only a moment before coming out and continuing down the hall, checking the closet, the spare bedroom, the washroom, the bathroom, and finally turning to go look around to the back. Spencer sat down on his couch, jumped when a scorpion scuttled across the floor and quickly dispatched it with his shoe, jibbering like a gibbon as he killed the creature and apologized to it at the same time. "I'm sorry [bang] I'm really, really sorry [bang] but you don't belong [bang] in this house [bang] and you are totally [bang] freaking me [bang] out!"

He picked up the scorpion's remains and tossed them outside before returning to the couch and sitting down again. Lassiter returned, and Shawn drew in a shaky breath. The idea that Lassie was here was actually strangely comforting. If anything leapt out at him, at least the cranky detective would shoot it and ask questions later. But what questions did you ask after you shot somebody? 'What's the average rainfall in the Amazon Basin? What's the GDP of Bangladesh? What's six times forty-two?'

"What was all that squealing and banging?" Lassiter asked, giving him a cold look, hands on his hips, looking irritated.

"Scorpion. Big one. The size of Shea Stadium, I swear."

"That's _Clash __of __the __Titans_."

"You saw that? The one with Sam Worthington? Did you see the one with Harry Hamlin and Alec Guinness and the mechanical owl? And how'd they get wings on that horse?"

Lassiter made a disgusted noise and looked around the room. "Well, I didn't see anything, though I found it odd that the place is so clean. God knows what kind of evidence you may have thrown away. Just relax and the day will be over soon enough. Then you can go back to being a ridiculous asshat and prick. Today, though, you just seem to be a scared silly ridiculous asshat _and_ a prick. See ya 'round."

"Yeah. Whatever." He climbed up onto the couch. "Hey…wait, asshat _and_ prick?"

* * *

><p>Juliet checked her cellphone and saw a text from Carlton. 'Spencer place clean. <em>Literally<em>! Six scorpions dead. Not sure how many left. Would be impossible for me to care less. I'm _was_ off at six. See you Monday'. She smiled and hung up. It was six-forty-five, and she was prepared for Shawn to be late. He was _always_ late for their dates. Always. It was the only thing he was consistent about, with regard to their relationship.

Oh, he was fun. She enjoyed being around him. He was unpredictable, he made her laugh, he was capable of romance. Or at least romance on the level of a thirteen-year old boy. He actually thought she enjoyed horror movies (she didn't) and that she really wanted to watch a _Family__ Ties_ marathon that was showing between midnight and eight in the morning. But she knew Carlton was right – Shawn had the emotional maturity of a bag of puppies. Maybe Shawn was just a project. Maybe it was all just an illusion. She didn't know. Juliet didn't want to think about it now. Right now, she just wanted something to eat.

She sighed and rolled her car window down, letting in some fresh air. She decided to just go over to Shawn's and pick him up, and if it required using her service revolver, so be it. She was hungry, her lunch with Carlton having been unsatisfactory due to his being strangely quiet through the whole meal. Their last discussion had been about the merits of the Austin Powers movies. She hadn't found them funny at all, but Carlton – to her surprise – had admitted to enjoying them immensely. "They're stupid, yes, and immature, but sometimes, you just have to let your inner thirteen-year old loose. When I'm bored or can't sleep, I'll get the DVDs out and just watch 'em, one after the other. My sides always hurt by morning. I temper that with _Bloodwork_ and _Grand __Carino_."

She started her engine and headed toward Shawn's house.

* * *

><p>"Uh-oh," Shawn said, looking at the clock. It was 6:55. He had five minutes to get ready. Jules wanted to eat a nice meal in a nice restaurant. With tablecloths and candles and those little mints that made his teeth feel like they were covered with sugar. He looked around his apartment, saw no sign of scorpions, and headed to his bedroom. He began searching his closet for something relatively nice to wear, and finally found a decent jacket and shirt, then went to his chest of drawers to find his jeans. He pulled a drawer open and began digging around for socks, and immediately recognized the feel of something <em>strange <em>in there. He dug around, wondering what that thing was. His socks didn't usually feel so _furry_. Or warm. And what he was feeling _moved_…

Cautiously, Shawn pulled the drawer out a little further, and looked in. He immediately came face to butt with a small, annoyed-looking black and white creature that was stamping its feet and backing toward him, tail up.

"_Aaaaaaughhhhh_!"

* * *

><p>Juliet knocked on Shawn's door, and her brow wrinkled when she heard <em>crying<em> in there. Cautiously, she turned the knob and let herself in. She immediately regretted that. She caught a glimpse of Shawn scrabbling on the floor, hauling himself out of his bedroom. She then saw the skunk – it was backing toward him, and she shrieked when the skunk let out another stream of _stuff_, hitting Shawn squarely on the back. The psychic screamed again and scrabbled faster, and thumped facefirst into the wall, blinded by the skunk's chemical bomb and the stench. Juliet slammed the door shut and rushed down the steps, having gotten a nose-full of skunk. She could hear Shawn wailing from inside, but there was just no way she was going back in there.

She knew he needed some kind of help. Tomato juice. Lemons. What got rid of skunk smell? Did anything really get rid of skunk smell? She grabbed her cell phone and wondered who to call. Finally, she called Gus, because she knew Carlton would only find this way, way too amusing.

* * *

><p>"You're joking. He's in there with a <em>skunk<em>?"

"Yeah. He's still crying. I hope he doesn't kill the poor thing. It's just doing what…you know…skunks do. Self defense."

"He had a skunk in his _house_? How'd it get in there?"

"Maybe it wandered in. Maybe he left a window open, or a back door."

"How big was the skunk?"

"Gus! I didn't stop to take measurements!"

Juliet decided Gus wasn't going to be much help. She flipped through the numbers on her phone and finally decided to call Henry. Maybe he knew something about skunks. Or how to persuade them to stop spraying and leave.

"What's a skunk's natural enemy?" she asked Gus, who looked at her as though she was insane. "I know! I'll call Animal Control!" She dialed and waited. "Hi. This is Detective Juliet O'Hara, SBPD. I need Animal Control, please. Yes, I'll hold."

"Natural enemy?" Gus thought about it. "Owls, I think. Birds of prey. They have no sense of smell."

"Yes! This is Detective O'Hara of the SBPD. Do you have any owls available?" She winced. "Never mind. I need somebody to come collect a skunk. It just bombed my boyfriend."

* * *

><p><strong>THE NEXT DAY<strong>

* * *

><p>Juliet sat down at her desk and consulted her watch. She smiled to herself when she saw Carlton lope in, looking like he'd had a good night's sleep. She sure hadn't. She had sat up all night, keeping several feet away from Shawn and yelling comforting words to him as he sat in a washtub, covered with tomato juice. Sometimes he would babble incoherently about rafts and scorpions, but mainly he wailed about vengeful baby skunks.<p>

Animal Control had come, declared the situation beyond their abilities, and a woman from the San Diego Zoo had come along and collected the skunk from Shawn's laundry room, where it had taken refuge. How that woman had managed to do that, Juliet had no idea, but at least poor little thing had come out of it alive and would be released back into the wild as soon as it was old enough to fend for itself.

Juliet smiled a greeting at Carlton, who sat down at his desk and logged in. He looked at his watch and went to the file drawers, digging around in Ab – Ad until he found what he was looking for.

"Carlton, can I ask you something?"

"Mm?"

"Do you know anything about skunks?"

"Not really, and good morning to you, too," he nodded. He was looking around, having apparently misplaced something. Finally, he saw a piece of paper beside his computer and snatched it up before stalking off, apparently irked. She sat back and waited, and he returned a few minutes later, sitting down. He was carrying two cups of coffee, and handed her one of them. "Soy milk, lots of sugar, a small amount of coffee."

"Thanks," she grinned at him. "What did you do last night?"

"Watched a movie and fell asleep. Woke up surrounded by popcorn. I dreamed I was Gulliver."

"Oh. I'm sorry. What happened in the dream? Lilliputians, Houyhnhnms or Yahoos?"

"I was on Laputa. Made me dizzy." He lifted his eyebrows as Gus came in.

"Hey, Lassie. Jules, our office is full of inflatable raft, and Shawn's house is full of scorpions that smell like skunk."

Carlton's eyebrows knit together. "Come again?"

"Yeah. Yesterday, he got a giant, inflatable raft that attacked him. Then he got a bunch of scorpions in the mail from the British Embassy, and then he was bombed by a skunk. And I thought my day went down the crapper over bad sausages."

"Wow." Carlton ran a hand through his hair. "Where is he now?"

"In isolation at his house. Sitting in a tub of tomato juice, whimpering."

"Tomato juice won't help," Carlton shook his head. "That's an old wives' tale." He leaned back in his chair.

"I think the whole day was a kind of payback," Gus said. "Nobody will go near him for at least two weeks now. He's gonna have to get all new clothes, new furniture…I mean, _everything_ in his house is ruined, according to that lady from the zoo. I got her number, though – she was kinda cute. Her name was Car-…"

"If only he could replace himself, he'd be in business," Carlton cut him off, turning back to his computer and logging back in. His phone rang. "Yeah, Lassiter. Oh yeah? That's good to hear. No, I will not make a donation." He hung up.

"A donation?" Juliet asked.

Lassiter ignored her. "So that means Spencer won't be in here at all for at least two weeks?" he asked Gus.

"He won't leave his house," Gus said. "He's pretty miserable, actually."

"Mm." Carlton eyed Gus for a second before returning to whatever was on his monitor. He looked at his watch and suddenly stood up. "Well, I've got someplace to be."

* * *

><p>Marlowe smiled at Carlton as he sat down, and he smiled back and picked up the phone. "Hi."<p>

"Hi. Seriously, we need to stop meeting like this. I'll send you a plastic spoon and you can dig your way to freedom."

She laughed. "Only another month."

"So how was your weekend?" he asked her.

"Boring. The prison library is twice as quiet as the average library. No noise allowed, _period_. No talking. It's like a literary prisoner of war camp. _Ja __wohl,__ mein __Fuhrer_! Shh! No talking, no talking! Even the books look scared and underfed. The only noise is the sound of the matron's stockings rubbing together when she walks. It's like a cricket, Carlton. A sad cricket. One that just learned she's been convicted of tax evasion. I'm reading _Pride__ and __Prejudice_ now. Just finished _War __and __Peace_. My insomnia is cured for good!"

He grinned. "Well, I should tell you about Sunday's events."

"Did you get pictures?" she asked excitedly.

"Alas, no. But the payoff was just as satisfying. Guster told me about it."

"I told you Carla was really reliable. She's really good with animals."

"How did you come to know a _skunk_ wrangler?"

"I knew her in college. She had a thing about skunks – she even has a de-scented pet skunk - and so now, she works for the zoo. I know…weird, but she was always really nice. When you suggested something that would incapacitate Spencer for a while, starting on April Fool's Day, I thought about skunks and wrote her a letter. She was happy to help. Particularly when she found out I was dating a sexy cop with beautiful blue eyes."

He blushed and got a little flustered, but finally regained his composure, straightening his tie, which made her smile softly, wishing to God she could just touch him. "She nearly gave me a stroke when she said there would be a delay on the scorpions," he said. "I'll tell her I'm sorry I yelled at her. And…I guess I could make a donation to the zoo. A _small_ one."

"She was really sorry about that, too, but she had a hard time collecting the damned things. You can train a skunk. It's harder to train scorpions, much less get them to come when you call them. They were extremely uncooperative…and it's best to not really provoke them."

"Yeah, I guess. Most of them are dead now, I think. If not from being stomped by a terrified fake psychic, then by the stench of skunk. Oh, and the skunk is back in custody at the zoo."

Marlowe smiled. "And the raft! That was hilarious! I laughed so hard I nearly peed myself. Where did you get a raft like that?"

"Connections are good things to have. I know a guy," Carlton shrugged modestly. "A fellow fisherman. I got the idea from an old episode of _The__ Dick __Van __Dyke __Show_. The skunk idea was entirely my own, and Carla showed up at Spencer's place right when I did. She was right there at the back of the house with…what was the skunk's name again?"

"Bobo."

"Bobo. Heh...how ironic. Gotta admit, he was a pretty nice little skunk. Went right to sleep when I put him in the drawer. Spencer was too busy watching an episode of _Welcome__ Back __Kotter_ to notice. You know, I dated a girl once who had a six-foot boa constrictor named Bingo, but that's neither here nor there."

"Bingo?"

"Yes. Bingo. She said he could wrap around us while we made love. I said he couldn't, because I would blow his head off. The relationship did not prosper, needless to say. In fact, I was driving away rather _quickly_…hey, I may be a bad-ass cop and all that, but a six-foot boa constrictor named Bingo would make Dog the Bounty Hunter crap his pants."

Marlowe was laughing in earnest now, her head down, shoulders shaking, and it was a while until she finally collected herself and sat back up again. "Guster wasn't affected by any of it, though, was he? He seemed like a pretty nice guy…even if he does like to dress like Count Chocula."

"He's okay. I was tempted to bring him in on it, but decided against it. He might have squealed on us and I'd've had to shoot him."

She giggled. "I hope you can get a picture of Spencer in the tomato juice bath."

"I'll see what I can do."

A guard appeared at the door, and Carlton knew their 'date' was officially over. He stood and placed his hand on the glass, and she placed her hand against it, too, her long fingers lining up with his. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, which made his heartbeat quicken. No wonder he was so relaxed lately. What was there to get stressed about any more?

He stood, straightened his tie, and left.

* * *

><p>Juliet put the headphones down and covered her mouth with her hand. "<em>Bobo<em>?" She tried to dig up some anger at her partner, but no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't. She rubbed her forehead and started giggling. "_Bingo_?"

It had only taken a little bit of rank-pulling and subterfuge to get hold of the recording of Carlton's conversation with Marlowe this morning. It was regulation, of course. Any cop talking to a prisoner had to be recorded, and she supposed he hadn't really thought about Juliet getting curious and listening to it. Or maybe he had. Carlton never left anything to chance. She knew he was as canny as they came, and capable of being downright _sneaky_.

It made her feel a little guilty, to have listened to his previous conversations with Marlowe. And it made her feel strangely – and guiltily - sad to think that there was _every_ indication that Marlowe was perfect for Carlton. She was smart and funny and kind, and she laughed _with_ him, loved Clint Eastwood movies, and apparently enjoyed watching _Cops_. She wasn't afraid to argue with him, either, and she flirted with him without a trace of self-consciousness or shame. She _liked_ Carlton, and Juliet would be a damned fool to not realize that the woman loved him, too. And Carlton was waiting for her. It was like a neon sign was over him now, saying, loud and clear, '_Taken_'.

She shoved the headphones into her desk drawer when she saw Carlton coming. She switched off the program ('Prisoner Visitor Recordings' was just way_,__way_ too obvious) and looked innocent as her partner took his seat and loosened his tie, Juliet's eyes watching his long fingers and wondering… In fact, she wondered if she could actually form a friendship with Marlowe, because frankly she was curious to know what he was really…_like_.

He yawned, stretching a little, and rubbed his face. "I swear, O'Hara, they're poisoning the coffee in there. Poisoning it. It's revolting."

Suddenly, Juliet shot to her feet. He looked up at her, raising an eyebrow. "Where're you going?"

"I have…an appointment."

* * *

><p>Marlowe looked startled to see Carlton's partner sitting there, but greeted her politely and sat down. "What is it? Oh my God…has something happened to Carlton? Is he okay?" She looked genuinely worried, which irritated Juliet to no end.<p>

"He's fine. Just fine. But I just wanted to talk to you for a moment."

"Okay. About what?" She looked alarmed again. "Is it my brother? Is he okay?"

"He's fine too, as far as I know. I wanted to talk to you about Carlton."

"Oh." Her expression became guarded, and Juliet drew in her breath.

"I just want you know that, as his partner, I have known him for a long time. Six years now. He's probably my best friend, and I'd trust him with my life. I have his back, no matter what, and he has mine. We watch out for each other. Sometimes, I swear I can read his mind, and sometimes we finish each others' sentences. Don't worry, though, it's strictly platonic." Juliet took another deep breath, and caught Marlowe's raised eyebrow. She cleared her throat and continued. "So I should tell you, Marlowe, that I will never, ever let anybody hurt him."

"I wouldn't hurt him," Marlowe said softly. "Ever. He's a remarkable man. Why else would I be on my best behavior in here? I'm hoping to be out next month. Then it's…" she shrugged. "I don't know what it will be from there, or how it will be. But I would never hurt him, Detective O'Hara."

"Good. Because if you do, Marlowe…if you hurt Carlton, or treat him with anything but the respect he deserves, I swear I will hunt you down and kill you and hide your body in the woods. Dogs won't even be able to find your remains. Okay?"

Marlowe studied Juliet for several moments, soft blue eyes widening a little, and she finally smiled, genuinely touched. "Okay."

"Good. Good. Well. Then…then I really hope things go well between you two. Because…because if anyone deserves to be happy…has _earned_ the right to be happy, the hard way, it's Carlton Lassiter." She hung the phone up and stood, straightening her blouse, and left.

* * *

><p>Carlton rang the doorbell and waited. He could smell skunk through the door, but knew he'd be able to endure it long enough for this. Finally he heard Spencer's muffled 'Come in' and stepped inside. The powerful volley of skunk stink was almost debilitating, but he endured worse things before and likely would come up against worse later. Needless to say, he had changed into battered old jeans and a T-shirt before coming over, as they could just be burned after this visit.<p>

Spencer was sitting in a large tin washtub, until to his chin in tomato juice, He was wearing a shower cap that was also apparently holding tomato juice in his hair. For a moment, Carlton actually felt a little twinge of sympathy for Spencer, but it didn't overcome the hilarity of this scene.

"Skunk, huh?" he asked mildly. The stench was unbelievable. Poor Bobo wouldn't be able to build up another load to equal Sunday's bombing for months.

"I can't even imagine how it got in here. I checked the doors and windows."

"Hm." Carlton's eyes were starting to sting a little.

"It was Gus, wasn't it? Gus did this. The raft, the scorpions, the skunk…or maybe not the skunk. I can't imagine Gus going near a skunk, much less planting one in my sock drawer."

"You have a sock drawer?" Carlton raised his eyebrow. "Well, anyway, tomato juice won't do much for you now. It'll be a while before the stink gets out of your skin. Lots of showers, extra soap, extra shampoos, and go for unscented. Get some vinegar and peroxide and mix it together with some baking soda and dishwasher detergent for the bathtub and that will help with the leftover stink on you. The important thing is to get rid of the oils that contain the stink. You'll probably have to get rid of your furniture, too. Just burn your sofa…which frankly is a good idea," he said, glancing at the ugly thing. "And if the stink lingers, get rid of all your carpets and throw rugs, too. Wash _all_ your clothes with extra detergent and maybe a dash of vinegar, too. The important thing is to get rid of the oil. However, I should be honest – you'll likely never get rid of it entirely. .When it gets warm in here, you'll smell it. People will smell it two hundred years from now."

"How do you know about this, Lassiter?" Spencer asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Amazing what you can find online." Carlton was a little amused at Spencer calling him by his proper name. He looked around the room. "Seen any more scorpions?"

"I killed eleven of them."

"How many were there?"

"Twelve. There were twelve." Spencer dropped his head back, his head cushioned on a ruined, tomato juice-stained blanket.

"Ah. Well, good luck finding the last one." Carlton twirled his keys on his finger and sat down on a barstool at the kitchen counter. "Hey, Spencer…"

"What? What?" Spencer barked, looking angrily at him.

"I'm really surprised you didn't _divine_ who sent you a raft, a box of scorpions and a _skunk_. Which just goes to prove that you are _not_, in fact, a psychic, because all the clues were there, in plain sight. Seriously, _dude_, you should have seen it. It was as obvious as a scorpion the size of Shea stadium. And it's so easy to just make a wax key from the keyhole to the door, and a quick trip to a local hardware store – _voila,_easy entry, and then it's just figuring out of the code to your security alarm – 867-5309 – and recreating _stamps_, which is remarkably easy. Took a bit more trouble collecting a dozen scorpions, and then I had to enlist the aid of a woman at the San Diego Zoo to rent me a baby skunk and deliver it to your back door while I was searching this place for anything suspicious. You sat there and watched Gabe Kaplan tell a bad joke, totally oblivious. Psychic. My. Skinny. Irish. Ass. You think this degree in criminology was for nothing?" He shrugged. "Frankly, Psychobabble, you'd be shocked to find out how I financed my education."

Spencer's eyes widened and he stared in horror at Carlton, who stood up, smiling. The younger man jumped to his feet, splashing tomato juice everywhere as he almost lost his balance and tipped the whole washtub over. He was clad only in formerly white briefs that were a kind of sickening tomato-pink color now. A scorpion scuttled by, frightened by the noise, and the SBPD head detective grinned as he raised a camera and brought it into focus. Shawn shrieked and tried to cover himself.

"Say cheese!"

**THE END**


End file.
